Luc interrupted.
“You cannot coax back when dying the man you have cast out,” he said gently. “Nor would it soothe your pride if he should expire on your hearth. You think I am disgraced, accursed. You perhaps even hate me.”
“I think I do,” breathed Joseph heavily.
Luc rose.
“Then leave me. I have so little time left for anything; none at all for hate. I want to die alone. Go your way, Joseph. When I left Aix something broke that is past mending.”
“I think the Devil possesses you,” cried Joseph. “But you are Luc de Clapiers, and you shall not live in beggary among the scum of Paris.”
“I am Luc de Clapiers,” replied the Marquis—“remember it. I am not what I look, but what I was born: a gentleman of quality, who upholds his own honour—as well here as in Aix, as well here as in Bohemia. Be content; I shall not disgrace you.”
Joseph half laughed.
“Disgrace! I think you deny God?”
“And the Devil—and all you believe, perhaps, Joseph,”—his voice had an exalted yet tender note,—“but maybe I shall sleep well just the same in my unconsecrated grave.”